That wonderful, headache-relieving massage I mentioned? The relief lasted less than 48 hours. I had been hoping it would be a week or even two. Oh, well.
I saw my neurologist, Dr. Bultemeier, Tuesday morning and told her what was up. She prescribed some topical cream that some mad scientist in Fort Wayne makes to order, which she says has helped some of her headache patients. I haven’t picked it up yet. I wonder how I’m supposed to apply it over my hair. Dr. B is also going to call that psychologist in Cleveland — the one who thinks I might be too crazy to be in the I-Match program — to find out if he’s got my records or has read them yet or what. Dr. Easley has put me back on Fentanyl, a larger dose this time. So I’m well on my way to becoming a complete hophead, knocking over 7-11s to get my fixes.
I’m feeling pretty down about it all. Not really doing to shoot myself though, or any other self-harm. The title of this post is just an indication of how frustrated I am.